


Prospect

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Fix-It, Goodbyes, Light Angst, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-04 10:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14591127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Steve has always prided himself on facing reality, on gritting his teeth and looking forward to accept the responsibilities the world presses onto him; but there are some things he can’t let go, and this has never been one he was willing to leave behind." Steve finds the opportune moment.





	Prospect

Steve aches.

It’s not his injuries. He learned long ago how rapidly his body can mend itself back together from cuts and bruises and worse; it’s become part of his fighting style, a way to rapidly get from one point to another so long as he’s willing to push through the pain that inevitably comes with it. What would be a sprained ankle to someone else aches like a bruise within minutes for him, what ought to result in shattered bones leaves him limping away for the few strides it takes to catch his breath and his health enough to drop into a run. There are accidental side effects, to be sure -- the inability to lose himself to the haze of alcohol is one he has regretted on a few awful occasions -- but for the most part he’s grown accustomed to the regenerative ability his altered metabolism grants him, and that hasn’t failed him here.

It’s not physical pain. Steve feels fine now, striding down a pristine hallway some hours away from the chill snow of Siberia; at least his muscles and bones and skin all do. The pain in him runs deeper, now, bruising against the beat of his heart too far for the reach of his superhuman abilities to touch. He can still feel the edge of his shield against his palms, as if that last jarring blow of metal-on-metal tore a brand deep enough to linger long after the fight; his ears are echoing with the rattle of glass shattering, his vision is awash in blood and shadow and pain. The faces of his friends are lingering in his mind, their expression twisted into the specters of enemies or wide-eyed with the pain of the hurts they have taken for him, on his orders, on behalf of his cause, and he knows those will not be leaving him any time soon. This will be another one of those hurts he scars into himself, another shadow to darken his dreams to nightmares and haunt the quiet moments of his life. Steve doesn’t regret his decision, doesn’t wish he had chosen otherwise; but that doesn’t mean he can’t see the possibilities of a different outcome. This will be a long, dull hurt, shaped into permanence by loneliness and silence; and even then, it’s not the whole of the pain that he feels bleeding through his veins with every breath he takes.

“Do you really have to?” he asks now, again, repeating the words even though he knows the answer. He should know better than anyone: this is an obvious solution, the only logical conclusion to everything that has happened over the last several hours. Steve has always prided himself on facing reality, on gritting his teeth and looking forward to accept the responsibilities the world presses onto him; but there are some things he can’t let go, and this has never been one he was willing to leave behind.

Bucky doesn’t sigh, doesn’t huff exasperation. His words are even, as patient in his response now as the first time Steve asked, hours ago when Bucky first stated his intention. “I do.” There’s no uncertainty, no hesitation; he’s fixed in this path, Steve recognizes the tone of determination on those words without having to look to see the set lines of Bucky’s expression to underline them. “I can’t trust myself in the world, not like I am now.” A pause. His head turns in Steve’s periphery; Steve can’t help but glance to meet his gaze. Their eyes meet, just for a moment; then Bucky cracks into a smile and ducks his head to hide behind the fall of his dark hair. “You know that better than anyone.”

Steve is the one who sighs. “I know.” Ahead of them T’Challa slows and turns to the side to speak to the woman who has been accompanying them in their path through the halls of the Wakandan facility; Steve finds his stride slowing, finds his feet stumbling as if to keep him from moving forward into the inevitable conclusion that is waiting for them. At his side Bucky shortens his stride in perfect step, without so much as a gesture from Steve. Steve smiles at the thought as he ducks his head forward to watch his feet drag to a halt at the floor beneath him. “I just wish there was another way.”

“We will find one.” That’s T’Challa’s voice, not Bucky’s; Steve looks up to see the young king returning back down the hallway towards where he and Bucky have stopped. T’Challa’s expression is calm, his eyes aredark, but there is a comfort in his smile, a self-assurance that Steve can feel ease some of the tension in his shoulders as if the other man is offering a solution in his hands right now. It’s strange to so clearly recognize the air of royalty in someone Steve has barely had the chance to meet; stranger still, to feel how much of a comfort it is. “Just because we do not have an answer now does not mean we will not find one.” He folds his hands in front of himself; for a moment his smile tugs hard at the corner, his eyes sparkle with something like unvoiced laughter. “My sister has never let a problem beat her before.”

“Right,” Bucky says. When Steve looks to him again he’s smiling, a soft, lopsided grin that carries as much self-deprecation as gratitude. “I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

“ _We_ can’t,” Steve clarifies. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

T’Challa ducks his head. “We started badly,” he says. “I would not like to see the possibility of the future undone before it has a chance to grow.” He turns aside, back to the woman who led them forward, to duck his head and return to a low conversation; Steve is grateful for the moment of near-privacy the graceful action grants them.

He turns to Bucky. Bucky glances at him sideways, looking at Steve through his lashes in that way that Steve remembers from a time a half-century past, that feels as recent as if it happened yesterday. After a moment he shifts his weight and turns in to face Steve in return as he lifts his hand to push the weight of his hair back from his face and leave them free to meet each other’s gaze.

Steve takes a breath, intending to steady himself, but it comes out shaky in spite of his attempts, and he suspects his smile is no steadier. “You ready for this?”

Bucky’s good shoulder lifts into a shrug, his lashes flutter. “It’s just another mission,” he says. There’s a twist at his mouth, like a smile trying to break free. “I like taking orders from this captain more than the last one.” That makes Steve laugh, a sharp cough of sound that breaks out of him with force alarmingly close to a sob; Bucky grins too, but it’s only for a moment before they’re left staring at each other. Bucky meets Steve’s gaze for a moment, just for a heartbeat of time; then he’s ducking his head to look at the floor between them and taking a breath so shaky Steve can see it tremble against the curve of his lower lip.

“I’ll get fixed up,” he says to the floor, his voice straining hard in his throat. “I’m not much use like this, anyway. I’d just be a burden to you.”

“You’re not,” Steve says, speaking quickly before he can think over the words. Bucky’s gaze lifts again, shadowed by the tilt of his head but meeting Steve’s all the same; there’s something aching in his eyes, something like pleading at the set of his mouth. Steve’s throat is closing up, his eyes are burning; he has to shake his head to carry his meaning while he reaches for words. “You’re never a burden.” Bucky is still watching him, his expression still shadowed into something between desperation and disbelief: as if he doesn’t know this, as if he doesn’t remember this, as if he’s begging Steve to tell him who he is again. Steve can feel the hallway around them, the echoing space with the curious stares barely withheld for the sake of politeness; but there’s nothing he can look at, nowhere he can look but straight into the endless shadows of that stare fixed on him.

“You’re my best friend.” Steve struggles for a breath, fighting back the press of tears. “You’re my--” and memory rises up, the words of a taunt on a broken man’s lips recast into sincerity in his own mind. _Your pal, your buddy, your_ …

“Bucky,” Steve says; and his hands are coming up, his feet are carrying him forward, and he’s crossing the distance between himself and all the tense strain Bucky is carrying in his body. Bucky’s head lifts, his shoulders tip back on surprise; and Steve is reaching out, his fingers finding the weight of that grown-long hair to push it back and away from Bucky’s features. Bucky’s lashes flicker, his mouth opens on the start of a question, and Steve ducks in, and forward, and presses his lips close against the tremor of uncertainty at Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky’s lips are soft against his. Steve has always thought they would be, on those occasions when exhaustion or loneliness got the better of him and drew him towards the comfort of a familiar fantasy; but this is better than a fantasy, better than imagination, this is a thousand daydreams and decades of want coalescing into this single, true fact of Bucky’s mouth warm under Steve’s own, of Bucky’s lips parted on melting shock under the friction of Steve’s touch. Steve lingers for a moment, letting the electricity of the other’s existence hum heat down the whole of his spine; and then he shifts his hands against the soft tangle of Bucky’s hair and he rocks back, just by an inch, just enough to take a breath from this new world, this existence where he’s finally claimed the contact he has craved for an existence spanning more time than most mortal lifetimes. His thumb slides in over Bucky’s ear, mapping out the curve of it that Steve thinks he might be able to recognize in his sleep; when he opens his eyes his gaze catches at the curve of Bucky’s mouth, still parted against the press of Steve’s lips. Steve swallows hard, thinking to speak, to explain, to add, to -- and a hand catches at the back of his head, strong fingers flex hard against his hair, and Bucky is coming back in to crush aside the distance Steve has just placed between them with the weight of his mouth. His hold is certain, unflinching and unbreakable even with just the one hand he has to work with; Steve thinks he would stumble backwards if he weren’t leaning in so hard himself, if he didn’t have his fingers curling to fists in Bucky’s hair, if his lips weren’t parting to the demand of Bucky’s mouth on his. They’re both pressing closer, pinning the weight of their shirts tight together, clinging to each other as if they’re the only people left in the whole of the world, and for a long, unmeasured span of time Steve doesn’t think about anything at all.

They surface slow. It’s like rising back to consciousness, like swimming up from the blind depths of an endless ocean; it takes Steve a minute to realize they’ve broken apart, to parse the rasping sound in his ears as Bucky’s breathing coming hot over his lips. Steve feels as breathless as if he’s caught back the asthma of his childhood from the shape of Bucky’s mouth, as if he’s just sprinted a marathon without pause for air. Bucky’s eyes are still closed, when Steve can force his attention to focus on them; his lashes are smoke against his cheekbones, smudged-in darkness like a bruise at his skin. His mouth is barely open, his parted lips flushed hot and red from the drag of contact; Steve can feel the ache of that all the way in the depths of his chest, like some part of his soul is humming a match to Bucky’s as surely as his shield resonated with the metal of the other’s arm.

Bucky presses his lips together and swallows. Steve can hear the sound of it clear between them. “Hell of a way to say goodbye.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re hard to hold on to.” Bucky’s lashes come up, his gaze fixes on Steve’s; Steve has to struggle to breathe, but he doesn’t look away. “I didn’t want to miss our chance again.”

Bucky’s fingers tighten against Steve’s hair, his eyes go dark. For a moment Steve can see the person he has become, the soldier his history has made of him: the soldier that was always in him, even when surrender was a question of black eyes and bruised knuckles instead of loyalty and survival.

“You didn’t,” Bucky says. He rocks forward; his forehead bumps Steve’s. “I’m coming back to you.”

Steve laughs. It’s not his intention to let it slip into a sob but he can feel it skid out of his grip, can hear the ragged edge of it as his hands tighten in Bucky’s hair. “You always do.”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s hand eases, his fingers slide down to the back of Steve’s neck. “I’m with you.”

“To the end of the line” Steve says; and then he has to press in, just once more, to catch the quiver of Bucky’s lips at his. They linger there for a heartbeat, a moment of stillness caught between their mouths; and then Steve lets his hold loosen, and Bucky draws his hand away, and they break apart. Steve steps back, straightening his shoulders and willing himself back to calm; Bucky follows suit, rocking back onto his heels and letting his hand drop to his side as he eyes Steve in front of him.

Steve ducks his head into a nod. “See you, Bucky.”

Bucky’s mouth twists onto a smile and he tips his head to toss his hair back from his face. “Yeah,” he says. “You can count on me.” His hand comes up, moving towards his forehead in a gesture that might be a salute, that might be the sketch of a kiss blown across the few inches between them; and then he turns away to step towards T’Challa and the Wakandan scientist waiting for him with polite inattention.

Steve stays where he is. It’s easier to bear from a distance, when he doesn’t have to fight back the urge to reach out and pull Bucky back towards him again: from here he can watch in silence, in something like privacy as Bucky is strapped into the chamber and the door closes over him. There’s a flicker at his lashes as the woman reaches to press a button, a moment when he looks back to Steve watching him; and then his eyes flutter shut, and the glass ices over, and Steve ducks his head to look at the floor as T’Challa turns to approach.

“Thank you,” he says again, speaking softly but with as much sincerity as he can fit onto the words. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

T’Challa steps past Steve to stand alongside the other man, his gaze turned out to the view on the other side of the glass lining the hallway. “It is better to make alliances than enemies,” he says in that same calm tone. “There has been enough fighting. This is not the place to collect debts.”

Steve inclines his head. “Still,” he says. “I am grateful.”

“He will be safe here.” T’Challa clasps his hands behind his back; the position lifts his shoulders and straightens his posture into the royalty that is his birthright, of which he has proven himself more than worthy. “My sister will make right what was done to him.” His gaze cuts sideways, his attention slides to linger on Steve; the very corner of his mouth tugs up on a smile. “This is not the end.”

Steve meets T’Challa’s gaze for a moment. There is a comfort there, a steadiness to the dark of the other man’s eyes on him: Steve almost thinks he can recognize some part of his own certainty there, some measure of the resolve that has always guided him like a magnet pointing his way due north. It’s reassuring to see, a comfort to the strain in his chest before he looks away and out over the vivid greens of Wakanda laid out in panorama before him.

“No,” Steve says. “This is the beginning of the future.”

For the first time since he awoke, he finds himself looking forward instead of back.


End file.
